Angels and Demons
by BlackDewInTheMorning
Summary: Red-eyed from birth, powered from his youth: the mutant Remy LeBeau grew up to be a thief, a charmer, and a sometime hero.  But the life he lives was bought with a price, and debts from the past are not easily forgotten, nor repaid.  A spin-off of my super-long Wolverine story "The Meaning of Pain."
1. Red is the Color of My True Love's Eyes

**Title**: Angels and Demons

**Summary: **Red-eyed from birth, powered from his youth—Remy LeBeau grew up to be a thief, a charmer, and a sometime hero. But the life he has was bought with a price, and debts from the past are not easily forgotten, nor repaid. A spin-off from TMOP.

**Author's long note:  
**

This is a Gambit spin-off my Wolverine/X-Men story _The Meaning of Pain_, which was started forever ago and inspired first by my own general insanity, and secondly by one squeekness over at the who used to give me lots of reviews, but after almost every chapter left a sad-sounding note: "I wish there were more Gambit." And then at the end of the most recent TMOP chapter, when Gambit took his leave from the past . . . there were so many sad-sounding reviews that I just couldn't keep this to myself.

So this is for all of us Gambit-loving freaks_. _;)

A few notes:

1. This will be considerably shorter than my current ongoing Wolverine fanfic, if things go according to plan. Still, I hope it will be enough to satisfy. :)'

2. I must admit right off the bat that I'm much less versed with Gambit's past and character than Wolverine's, so if his character or some facts are not spot-on-sorry beforehand. I'm not spending as much time on this one proofreading either, so it might not quite be up to the same standard as TMOP.

3. Because TMOP is still my main focus, chapters for this story will be quite shorter and posted less frequently than I do for TMOP, so be warned of that beforehand.

As for the rest . . . . I'll let the story speak for itself.

Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 1: Red is the Color of My True Love's Eyes

* * *

The high gilded ceiling gleamed with the faint glimmer of distant light, and the dark halls were silent save for the ghosts of the far-echoed ringing of crystal on crystal, and a soft murmur of laughter and conversation. The thick wooden panels and deep velvet carpeting blanketing the polished oak floors absorbed both the sound and the light, removing it to another place—another time.

A soft brush of moving cloth shifted in the silence, though it might have been the thick curtain, which swayed slightly as the wind shifted.

A canister rolled across the floor, sending up a soft white mist, and revealing the red lines of motion sensors criss-crossing across the hallway.

_Twick!_

_Thunk.  
_

A bolt shot down the hall, its head burying in a rich crest on one of the overhead arches. There was a tug on the thick cord it had strung down the hallway, and then a shadow slid down, belted to a pulley and pulling itself down the length with dark-gloved hands.

The figure paused, and in the darkness a faint glint of red caught the dim light. A hand released himself from the pulley, and he dropped ten feet, flipping backwards cleanly and landing low between the sensors with no sound other than that of his coat settling around him.

He didn't move at first, paused and crouched low, his head tilted as he listened. Far away, someone laughed. The sound was almost surreal in the dark silence.

He stood slowly, shoulder-length hair settling around his roguish face as he reached into his long brown coat and took hold of something. A flick of his hand, and a long staff extended at his side.

He leaped, landing one-footed between two lasers, then flipped, vaulting with his staff and twisting. Silent as ever, he landed, panther-like, at the end of the hallway, coming to a stop at a dark wooden panel.

He lifted a slow hand, his red eyes narrowed. He slid his fingers on bottom of the frame. Seconds later, the wall swung open, revealing the hidden study.

Hidden, but hardly secret. The Victorian curtains framing the twenty-foot windows covering the whole of the far wall had left a clear view of the comings and goings of the expansive drive at the front of the mansion throughout the day.

He padded forward, a hand rising as he scanned over the bookshelves. Millions of dollars worth of leather-bound journals, first-editions, and artifacts passed by untouched, until he paused, a hand hovering over a thick, dog-eared journal.

_Nathaniel Essex._

He slid the book out of its place, and a thick folder of papers slid out with it.

A gloved hand shot out, catching it before it fell and its contents scattered. But a single sheet slid out at the end, and the sight of it caused the silent man to pause.

He set the journal down, quickly flipping through the thick folder before snapping it shut. He slid it into a bag, placing the journal in after it, and slung it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. He closed it behind him, darting down the hall again, his coat falling around him like a shadow.

Less than a minute later, he was gone, leaving the hall empty and silent, save for the distant clinking of crystal glasses.

* * *

He sat alone at a table in the corner of an open-patio diner, peering out over the street through shaded glasses as he spoke into his cell phone. He was a mixture of suave and casual—long hair brushed back, his shirt loose, his coat slung over the chair behind him.

"Non. Not comin' back for a few more days." A pause. "What dat? Non. No matter. Jus' got some loose ends to tie up, dat's all."

A soft laugh. "Moi aussi, je t'aime. Be back by da end of da week, cherie."

He hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket before turning his attention back to the folder before him.

He glanced up, making sure that no one was walking past his table, then flicked it open. He sat back, taking a drink as he scanned over the papers for the thousandth time. But he'd already seen as much as he needed to.

He just didn't know what to do about it yet.

He left a tip and the rest of his drink behind, gathering up the folder and journal and putting them safely in his black briefcase.

It wasn't safe to go home yet. Not until he'd figured out what he was going to do.

He stood, placing the folder in his bag and picking up his coat before stepping onto the crowded sidewalk. He moved easily through the crowds down the street, narrowing in on a payphone. He stepped in, closing it firmly behind him before picking up the phone and dialing a number.

Could've used his cell phone, but if they tracked the number for some reason . . . he didn't want his name on it.

"Hello? I am lookin' f' . . . Heather. Heather . . . Hudson. Non, not Header—_Heather_. Married t'Mac—James Hudson."

It took an hour, an extra trip to a change machine, and enough of his charm that he even felt it running a bit thin by the end. It kind of surprised him; such a thing had never happened before.

"Ce est? Non. D'name's Gambit. One a' de firs' members of your Canadian Alpha Flight," he tried.

"Really? Gambit? I haven't heard of you."

"Jus'—just call da lady, all right? 's about da Wolverine."

The name was like a spell. The rookie on the line stopped stand-still, put him on hold, and left him wondering why he hadn't brought the name up in the first place.

Fifteen minutes on hold and listening to the second repeat of T'chaikovsky's _1812 Overture_, however, and he started scanning the streets for black cars or the Canadian equivalent of the SWAT team and debating whether it would be safer to head for the sewers or just gouge out his eardrums.

Canadian SWAT team? Really.

Well, with Wolverine, who knew? Especially after all this time.

Finally, the music cut, and there was a pause. "Hello?"

"Mon dieu, I was starting t'think it be faster t'go t'Canada an' track you down myself."

There was a pause, and she spoke with a colder voice. "Who is this?"

"Heather, mon cherie. Gambit's hurt."

Another pause. "Gambit? What—_Remy?_"

"Y'do remember, den. How your team? Haven't looked it up lately, but las' I hear you doin' jus' fine."

"Yeah. Things are. . . . yeah, they're fine. _Remy_. What, where, how—" she paused, laughing. "I don't even know what to say."

"Don' worry about it, petite. Gambit jus' wonderin' if our Wolvie on hand, 's all."

Another pause, long enough for Gambit to pull back and glance at the phone, then hold it back to his ear, hoping he hadn't lost the call.

"He—he's not around anymore."

"What dat? Where he go?" He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. Gambit honestly didn't even think that was possible.

Not at this point, if he had ever doubted.

"He—he left, about 10 years ago."

"Jus' . . . left?" He knew he should have thought of it, but somehow he had a difficulty picturing where Wolverine would leave to. It was hard to see him anywhere among normal people. "D'ya know where he is?"

"Why?" It was defensive now—wary. Heather didn't sound much different, but time had taken away some of her innocence, somehow.

"Found sometin'. Sometin' that he would want t'see."

There was silence as she processed that. He wasn't about to tell, and she was smart enough to realize that. He waited, wondering if she would help.

"Well . . . I haven't seen him. Mac looked for him for years, but . . . when he wants to hide, well, you know. But . . . he came back on the map. On youtube, of all places."

"L'enfer!"

Gambit had heard about the mutant fiascos—who hadn't? And as a mutant himself, keeping track of the rise and fall and then sudden surge of reignited mutant hate was part of survival. He'd never actually seen the footage, but he'd heard about it. Some crazy rogue mutant gang—called themselves the _X-Men_, of all things—fighting it out with some rival group led by that Magneto person.

But Heather had the details that had been filtered from the public. How a guard had been found with three stab wounds, and when Heather had seen them, she'd known.

No one left their mark like Wolverine.

New York, then. Well, he had time. Belladonna would just have to wait.

"Well, maybe I gonna go track him down. T'anks, Heather. For both den and now."

"If you find him . . . tell him hello for me, will you?" She paused, and Gambit wondered. So Wolvie'd had a one-sided crush on the girl, but if he'd taken off just ten years ago . . . he'd stuck around for five years. What had happened during all that time? "What happened to you?"

"Dat a long story, cherie. Too long." Gambit gave a soft laugh. "Far too long."

TBC . . .


	2. Angels and Demons

This chapter was actually finished when I posted the last one in this chapter (ages ago though that was), but I've intentionally held it back so that I can lay out these chapters around the right time compared to TMOP (:D).

Anyway, I'm off to get on a plane to enjoy Alaska for the next couple weeks. Lots of plane time and driving time ahead, so I'm hoping to get a fair bit more writing done. :)

And as usual . . . I love reviews! I know it's been a fair bit of time since last posting, but that means I'm wondering who is out here coming back after this long wait. Even if it's short, I'd love to hear from you.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2: Angels and Demons

* * *

Gambit finally hung up the phone, his pockets significantly lighter after being emptied of so many quarters. He hefted his bag, stepping out of the booth and turning into the crowd.

He stepped forward, reaching for his cell phone and speed-dialing the last number called. It went to the message machine as he strode through the masses. "Bell, 's Remy. Change'a plans again, mon cherie. Headin' east afta da business here. Got somet'ing big here. I'll be in touch."

He hung up, and looked down just in time to see a small girl dart right in front of him. He pulled up short, but not fast enough before she ran right into him. Gambit caught her arm before she fell back.

"Slow down, petite. Where you goin' so fast?"

She looked up at him, blue eyes wide, and Gambit knew he'd never seen a stranger little girl.

She was dressed in a ragged t-shirt and shorts, with filthy bare feet and a smudged, hungry face. But there was no fear in her eyes, just wariness as she sized him up. He knew that look. Experience and age, despite her size.

But that wasn't the strangest thing. He just couldn't say he'd ever heard of a white-haired, blue-eyed black child. Ever.

Her appearance positively screamed mutant.

She said something angrily, but it wasn't English..

"You speak English, petite amie?"

She blinked, but then pulled away with surprising strength, and high-tailed it away, slipping into the crowd and vanishing quick as a ghost with her small size.

He considered going after her, but a grown man chasing a clearly homeless child like that was bound to attract negative attention.

He sighed. Hated to see a kid in that kind of position.

He walked on, slipping his phone back in his pocket. But then he stopped standstill.

His wallet was gone.

He swore, whipping off his sunglasses and scanning the crowd for the small shape.

The little devil'd stolen—from _him_.

"All right. You wanna play dat way?"

Crowded streets or not, Remy moved forward, slipping through the bustling folk like a shadow himself—barely brushing them as they pushed and bumped their ways forward. He caught a brief glimpse of long white hair as the girl broke from the crowd and into a side street, and Gambit bolted after her.

He stopped still, eying the alleyway—empty, save for the over-flowing dumpster rusting next to the wall. The tall, filthy walls of the buildings helped to block out the noise of the street behind him, and he couldn't hear the patter of small bare feet.

He stepped forward slowly, his boots silent on the trash-strewn ground. One hand flicked through a deck of cards in his pocket casually.

"Lemme see," he drawled calmly. "You a good li'l thief, mon cherie, so I tell ya what. You come on out, and Gambit'll make it worth yo' while."

Silence.

He took another slow step forward, and another, then bolted around the dumpster, expecting to see her huddling there.

Nothing.

"Huh." He flicked his cards in his pocket, and smirked. He stepped back, hefting his bag over his shoulder as he looked upwards to find the girl clutching onto a drainpipe, frozen a good halfway up towards the rooftops. As soon as he saw her, her eyes narrowed and she began scampering upwards like a monkey.

The girl was good, he'd give her that.

"Not so fast," he said, lithely hopping atop the dumpster and grabbing hold of the drain. It was rusted and a felt more than a little unstable, but he took hold, swinging upwards easily. The girl scrambled, finally reaching the rooftop and disappearing from view. Remy was seconds behind her.

He vaulted over the ledge to see the girl dart across the rooftop. He followed, unhurried. She was heading for the edge of the roof. She'd have to stop, and then they'd—

The girl jumped.

"L'infer—" Gambit swore, running to the edge. The little thief had caught a clothesline only feet below, and was swinging a good two stories from the ground—completely fearless as she swung her way over to the opposite building.

Gambit pulled out his staff and stepped back from the ledge. Taking a running start, he sprinted forward, planting his staff firmly on the roof's edge before vaulting cleanly over the alleyway. He landed catlike on the other side, and went to the edge, looking down as the girl reached the fire escape and began pulling herself over the banister. Her eyes went wide as she saw him, and Gambit leaped down lightly as she began scampering back onto the line. He caught her wrist, and she squirmed, pulling away from him.

"Now you wait one second dere. We gon' play tag all day? I tink you get tired faster climbin' here and there dan Remy does followin' after. You gonna hurt youself." She twisted her arm, breaking out of his grip. She swung back down, hanging from the clothesline again.

"T'anks for dis back, mon cherie," Gambit said, holding up his wallet he'd slipped from her. She froze, her eyes narrowing into slits. Remy chuckled, opening it and flipping through a few tattered bills. "Now Gambit don' carry much cash, but here's sometin'. I not a stranger t'da ways a' da streets." He held out the bills towards her.

The girl just hung there from a second, her bare feet dangling meters above the concrete, but she looked hardly winded despite her flight. She looked at him, clearly torn, then slowly climbed back to the railing, setting her bare feet on the grate.

She eyed him warily, then nabbed the money and immediately darted back onto the line, swinging her way back to the far side.

"Yo' very welcome," Gambit called. He vaulted back up the rooftop and watched as the kid finished her way across and slid down the fire escape latter. She darted around a corner and out of sight without a glance back.

Remy chuckled softly, sitting on the edge of the rooftop and pulling out a cigarette. He lit up, looking over the rooftops.

Now where was he?

Oh, yeah.

* * *

Gambit always had a reason for going where he went. 'Course, that didn't mean he was always working. Sure, business paid the bills, but pleasure was what made the business worthwhile.

He liked to think that this was a bit of both. It was no crime to have a little fun on the way to New York.

Well, maybe it was.

He'd tracked down a black-market dealer of antiquities, and managed to trace a couple of stolen gold Egyptian artifacts—solid gold_._ They'd been stolen couple years before—in broad daylight, the robbers charging into the museum and taking it at gunpoint.

Some people who dared call themselves thieves just had no taste of the true art of thievery.

Getting past the wall was a cinch, no matter the guards or the 12-foot-drop from the camera-scanned wall. But the man'd put dogs on his security team, and Remy had to step lightly—his footsteps hardly making a sound as he padded along the perfectly-trimmed grass.

He'd learned from the best.

The house was quiet and dark. Remy had gotten past the high gates and the dogs without problem. As for the guards . . . well, hired help just wasn't what it used to be.

He frowned as he perched in the window of the second floor. He'd scaled up the outside of the house, and now peered through the darkness—looking for cameras, for sensors . . . the usual.

Nothing. Not even a glimmer, or a blinking light.

He climbed down cautiously, padding forward, but then paused at the sight of a tell-tale glimmer from a camera lens.

He charged a card, waiting for it to turn this way . . . but it was still, and dark. Dead.

His frown deepened, and he lengthened his stride, an ear cocked for any sound as he approached the vault in the council room.

Complete silence. Something wasn't right. Even the electronic panel for access was dark.

He reached out, letting his fingers hover over the metal, but there was no unusual hum from the vault—no touch-sensitive alarms.

Strange. They were standard in most high-end places like this.

He turned to the controls, but then went still.

The light wasn't blinking. The metal itself looked almost charred—like something had blasted it.

_L'infer?_

Remy pulled against the wall, blending in with the shadows and waiting.

_Someone had beat him there?_

The vault hadn't been closed all the way. His red eyes narrowed in the darkness, watching the shadows from within, listening to the slightest sound of movement inside.

Whoever it was, they were still inside.

Slowly—ever-so-slowly—the vault door was pushed open, and the thief began to step into the moonlight.

The small shadow stopped before she put her foot down, her head rising and her mouth dropping open as they both froze in surprise.

Black and red eyes met blue, and Gambit swore.

It was the little girl.

The moment passed, and suddenly the kid darted past, a bulky canvas sack swung over her shoulder. Gambit swore again.

"Kid!"

He caught up to her easily, but she dodged his arm as he went to catch her, falling into a roll and bringing her foot around in a perfect kick that caught him behind the knees. Gambit staggered—cursing himself for underestimating the kid again—but caught himself. He twisted, blocking another kick and catching her ankle. He twisted her leg, flipping her onto the floor, but she threw out her hand—slamming her palm flat onto the wall.

Blinding blue light blazed from her hand with a crack—electricity arced up the wall, and suddenly alarms blasted the still night air. Dogs lifted their cries from the yard—baying frantically as if trying to outdo the blaring noise.

_She'd set off the alarms?_

Oui—definitely a mutant.

She twisted out of his grip, grasping the paintings and darting forward again—sprinting all out—right towards the stained glass window at the dead-end hall before them.

What—?

She lifted her hand, and wind suddenly blasted down the hallway, nearly sweeping Remy right off his feet. The window blasted outwards, and the young thief leaped into the air, careless of the three-story drop below.

She hovered there for a moment, almost as if she were being lifted by the wind's force—and then she dropped.

"No!" Gambit shouted.

_BAM! BAM!_

Gambit ducked, and the bullets missed him by inches. He flicked his cards between his fingers and turned, throwing them sharply.

They flew straight and true—striking into the two guards that had run around the corner. They were blasted back, slamming into the walls, and the hallway shook.

Gambit didn't wait to see the results—he ran forward, pulling out his staff. He glanced down as he swung out onto the ledge outside the shattered window.

No body. No sign of the kid, either. He swore under his breath.

Gambit followed, swinging out onto the side of the building and finding handholds in the tiniest cracks in the stone facade of the building.

He flew down the wall so quickly that it almost looked as if he were falling in slow motion rather than climbing down, and he dropped the last story and rolled to his feet, the sound of the alarms mingling with the dogs from the grounds—even over the alarm, he could hear their frantic barking, their howls of the chase—but not of him. He could smell the ozone on the air, and the wind stirred oddly.

He glanced towards the wall and ran in the direction of the dogs.

The girl was backed against the wall, and now stood—one hand outstretched and the other held close to her body. Wind whipped around wildly—directionless, panicked. Gambit vaulted over the dogs, landing in front of the girl. He sent a card flying at the dogs and caught her around her waist.

"Time t'go, little thief."

He ran, darting to a side gate and slamming his hand against it, charging it red as he spun to the side, hiding behind the wall as the thick wooden door shattered outwards into pieces. The dogs howled as they took up the chase again, but Gambit picked up the little girl and ran into the darkness.

The girl didn't move. She was tense in his arms, frozen in a huddled ball in the tree next to him.

"What your name?" Gambit asked softly, once the dogs had passed by.

The girl glanced at him, her blue eyes wide in the darkness, but didn't answer. She clutched the stolen artifacts close.

Gambit frowned, his dark eyes glittering in the darkness. "Dogs got your arm?"

The girl looked down at her arm, which she was cradling against her chest, but didn't answer.

"Here let Gambit see," Remy said, reaching forward. The girl was obviously hesitant, but she held out her hand slowly. Gambit shook his head, pulling out a handkerchief and wrapping it around her thin arm. "Don' suppose your rabies shots are up to date?"

Again, nothing. She just pulled her arm back and looked back down at the ground below.

"Here, petite. Gambit knows a guy who pay plenty for what you grab. We help each other out, we each take a cut?" Even ten percent would be enough to feed this girl for the foreseeable future.

But the girl looked at him sharply. "It was stolen," she said, her English surprisingly crisp and clear, though colored with a distinct foreign accent.

"No joke," Gambit said, wondering if the girl was a bit dim despite her skill.

"I did not mean by myself," the girl continued, slightly scornfully. "These belong to the museum. It was to be sold for charity, and the money contributed to the poor and homeless of this city. There are many of us who bear the name of thief, and we steal because we must, but that man . . . he has no love of art, nor any heart or purpose save greed. They will be returned to their rightful place."

Gambit blinked. Despite the child's voice, the words were confident and would have sounded more in place at a training school than on the streets.

"All righ', then. Where you from, petite?"

A hesitation—though she tried to cover it. "Cairo." She paused. "Illinois, not Egypt."

"There's a Cairo in Egypt?" Gambit joked.

Again, he received the impatient stare before she looked away. "The dogs are gone. We had best be on the move before they return." She hefted the large bag over her shoulder and looked down. An out-of-place wind stirred her hair.

"Non," Gambit said, catching her arm before she jumped. "You tink I not see you limping? You might be a mutant, but you gon go kill yourself doin' crazy stuff like jumpin' out windows." He eased his way down, and reached out a hand. "Let me help you."

She looked at him, and Remy felt like he was being measured by a judge rather than an 8-year-old girl. "Very well," she said at last, holding out her hand to him. It was small in his black-gloved hand.

They did not speak as they climbed down, and Remy led the way silently through the trees to his getaway car parked a fair distance out. The girl was surprisingly good in the woods—making hardly a sound behind him, even as she limped to keep up. As they reached the car, Remy held out a hand for the canvas bag and the girl looked at him with those big blue eyes, then handed it over without a word.

Remy opened the passenger door for her. "Get in," he said. "Gambit'll fix you right up, and then you can go on your way."

Those blue eyes looked at him—measuring him up once again—the white of her hair almost glowing in the light of the moon. The girl climbed in, and Remy closed the door behind her.

He walked towards his door, wondering what the hell he had got himself into.

TBC . . .


	3. The Thieves' Guild

Thanks for the reviews, you guys! Look for a chapter to tie-in story, _The Meaning of Pain, _within the week.

* * *

Chapter 3: The Thieves' Guild

* * *

"Now that wasn't da most discrete job I ever done, t'anks to you," Gambit said, kicking the hotel room door closed behind him. He led her to the chair next to the lone desk in the hotel room, having her sit before taking her arm and turning it to inspect the gouges. "Not as bad 's it could'a been. You sit here, 'n we'll patch it up in no time."

He went to his bag—already packed for a quick exit—and pulled out a basic medical kit. He came back, ripping open a disinfecting wipe with his teeth before shaking it out and using it to wipe away the drying blood.

Kid barely even flinched, but just looked at him—watching.

Kinda creepy.

"What yo' name, petite?" he asked, to distract the kid as he wiped it clean. Dog bites hurt like hell—he knew that from experience—but it wasn't a bad one as far as it goes.

"I am . . . Storm." Her voice was soft and child-like, but the words were carefully measured, her accent foreign, but cultured.

Storm, huh? Well, if the boot fit.

"Gambit."

She frowned at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You are a thief."

Remy raised an eyebrow. "You pointin' fingers, Stormy? 'Cause dat sounded awful like an accusation, considerin'."

She looked down at her hands for a moment, then back up at him. "Thank you," she said plainly.

"Don' mention it." Remy finished bandaging her arm and stood. "Anywhere else, kid?"

She shook her head, pulling her hurt arm to herself and running a hand lightly over the new bandage. "No, thank you."

"So why don't you tell me who you're working for?" Not many thieving groups that he knew of around here, but he hadn't been around in a few years.

"I am alone. I work for no one."

"Kid, you work like a pro. You tellin' me you learn all dat—t'fight, t'sneak around like that—all by youself?"

She frowned at him, and looked down again.

"They find out you a mutant and put you to work, or what?" Gambit reached into his pocket for a cigarette to cover his reaction to the thought. He'd seen too many mutants exploited because of their powers.

Storm looked up sharply. "No," she said, her voice chilling a couple degrees—and was it just him, or did the temperature in the room drop with it? The kid seemed to notice, and took a deep, calming breath. "I told you—I am alone. I awoke in a hospital bed three weeks ago, but when they found I was a mutant they . . . called someone. I left before they showed up."

She 'awoke'? The girl talked better than he did.

Gambit frowned. Stormy seemed honest enough, even if she did talk years older than her appearance.

Where the hell was this kid from?

"So . . . what about before dat?"

The girl's eyes were down—not meeting his.

"Y'don't remember?" Gambit said, feeling it was true as soon as he asked it, even if the girl didn't even glance up at him. He stood, straightening with a soft chuckle he couldn't keep back.

Another amnesia victim? Well, at least she wasn't as hairy or grumpy as the last one.

"Well, we best get a move on." He reached for the canvas sack, but the girl put her hand on it possessively.

"This goes back to the museum," she declared, all authority.

Gambit amusement vanished.

Okay, maybe not as hairy, but definitely just as much trouble.

* * *

Gambit reasoned, charmed, cajoled, and even tried bullying the little girl who called herself Stormy, but it was no use. As soon as she was fixed up she directed them to his car, and they drove down to the police station in the dark. The girl kept a close eye on him as they dropped the bag off in an old phone booth, phoned in an anonymous tip, and made themselves scarce.

"Waste a' good time and profits," Remy complained as they drove away. "For all'a your trouble, all'a my trouble—and what? It's just gold. Worth nothin' except for selling."

Stormy didn't answer, and Gambit glanced over to find her sound asleep, her head leaning against the car window and her breath fogging up the cold glass in front of her face.

Remy shook his head. "Remy LeBeau, you a damn softie," he muttered to himself.

* * *

He didn't know what to do with the girl, so he let her sleep as he drove back to the hotel. He nudged the girl awake and helped her up the stairs and into the bed. He pulled off his coat, bunching it up as a pillow as he turned to the floor to hopefully catch a few z's.

She was still asleep when he woke up—probably the first time she'd slept in a proper bed for a while, he'd guess—so he showered and changed. When he came back in the room the girl was sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

"Bathroom's open," he said. "You clean up and we'll go grab some breakfast. Dat is—'nless you got somewhere else to be."

She looked at him with her strange blue eyes—though he supposed he was one to talk. "Why are you helping me?"

"Payin' back an old debt, petite. Now wash up." This whole thing with the kid was bringing back childhood memories that he hadn't dwelt on in years. Why the hell had the Wolverine taken him in anyway?

Stormy obeyed, hopping into the bathroom. Gambit flopped back onto the bed, staring at the stuccoed ceiling.

Maybe Wolvie'd been a softie, too.

That thought made Remy grin. His memories from those weeks were like a dream, or a story. Wolverine had become larger than life in his memories, no matter how at times he seemed barely human. His boyhood friends had hardly believed his story when he'd jumped off the last bus back to New Orleans, and even his father had taken the story with a few grains of salt. But Remy hadn't needed to exaggerate.

Gambit took Stormy out for breakfast—picking up a pair of shoes on the way (cash only—cards were too easy to track). She dug into a tall stack like a starving man, and he drank down a cup of coffee, checking his phone. No messages. Belladonna hadn't called back.

He let out a sigh, adjusting his bag on his back. The papers inside felt heavy, even if it was just that—paper. He couldn't wait to get rid of them.

"Listen, Stormy," he said as she was licking syrup off her fingers. "I'm headin' up t'New York. Manchester. Dey say there's a mutant school there—takes in kids like you. They'd feed you, put a roof over your head—what you say?"

"A . . . mutant school?"

"Oui. Like dat stuff you do with the wind, and lightnin'. Guess they take in all kinds'a folks."

She looked down, straightening her dirty shirt. "I don't have any money."

"I figure you won't need it." If a mutant school was going to take in the Wolverine, they'd surely take in a kid. "So what d'ya say?"

She considered it for a moment. "You'll . . . come with me?"

Crap. Kid was getting attached to him. He ignored the voice that reminded him his affection for the hairy mutant of his childhood before he'd left. He'd even sent a letter to him, after he got back to the city, though he never got a reply. 'Course, he hadn't really expected one. Even if the man could read . . . writing was a whole different ballgame. "For a little while. Got somethin' t'give to somebody there."

She looked askance at him at his vagueness, but finally nodded. "Okay."

She trailed him back up to the room to get his stuff, watching their backs over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs. Gambit shook his head to himself. Girl was as cautious as a cat in a dog shelter.

He pushed open the door, but then stiffened.

Remy whipped around, sensing the other presence in the room before he turned on the light. A card sparked in his hand as he pulled out his bo staff—flipping it out and extending it as he pivoted for an attack.

A lamp flicked on. Remy stopped, but he didn't relax his defensive stance as Storm hovered by the door, staring between him and their strange visitor.

"You," Remy said.

"Me," the voice was deep and cold. The giant figure stood—spreading a stench of decay, but his eyes weren't on Gambit. He was watching the girl. His nostrils flared as he took in her scent, and his cat-like eyes narrowed. A soft growl rumbled in the depths of his chest. "Interesting company, cajun. Didn't know ya liked 'em so young."

Gambit stepped forward, setting himself more firmly between the mutant and the young girl. "What're you doin' here, Sabretooth?"

The feral man's eyes went to him at last, and he grinned—his teeth were inhumanly sharp. "You don't sound glad to see me, LeBeau."

Gambit flashed a red-eyed grin. "I told you, Sabes—it was a one-night fling, dat's all. Dere no reason to get all weepy about it."

Sabretooth chuckled. There was nothing pleasant about it. He stepped forward, the lamplight casting harsh shadows on his already harsh face. His eyes caught the light, reflecting strangely. Feral or not, though, his growling voice was clear, his eyes sharp with cruel intelligence. The worst kind. "Our . . . mutual friend wants the package he sent you for."

"I don' have it."

Sabretooth's eyes narrowed and he stepped closer threateningly. "Don't think you can lie to me."

Gambit spread his hands innocently. "I was on my way. Got sidetracked by a bit of work—gimme a week."

"You think I'm stupid, boy?"

"I wasn't going t'say, but since you asked—"

Sabretooth growled. "We know you got it. Ya don't think he has contacts in the Hellfire club?"

Gambit shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I been his messenger boy for years—paid my debt ten times over. I'm out."

"Not good enough, Cajun."

""s good enough for me," Gambit said grimly, and he let his card fly. Sabretooth snarled, dodging low, but the force of the explosion on the wall behind him sent him stumbling. Gambit caught the girl's arm, throwing her over his shoulder and running from the room.

"Let me go!" Storm protested, hitting him soundly on the head.

"Ow!" Gambit protested. "Hold on, petite. Dis not a guy you want tracking you down."

Sabretooth bolted through the doorway, pushing off the wall as he turned and leaped toward them on all fours.

Gambit threw back a handful of cards, but Sabretooth dodged them, his claws snatching his long coat.

Storm shouted, throwing up her hands. Wind blasted the hall and Sabretooth grabbed a hold of a door frame to avoid getting swept back. He snarled, icicles crawling up his hair that still smoked from Remy's blast.

Remy caught his balance as Stormy slipped from his shoulders. She glared at him, but immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hallway.

* * *

Gambit was glad he had a habit of not leaving things in his room—he was used to having to make a quick getaway, so he kept anything of value with him.

"What was that?" Stormy demanded once they were a few blocks from the motel.

Gambit didn't answer. He was splitting his energy looking between the road in front of him and the rear view mirror—they might have left Sabretooth behind, but Gambit wasn't fool enough to think that it was a sure thing that he couldn't catch them if he wanted to. Not to mention possible backup.

But there were no suspicious cars. No gleaming guns from the edge of buildings—or silhouettes of men. These days one hardly needed a gun to have the power to blow a man sky high.

"That man. Sabretooth. He is a mutant." Not a question. Still, Gambit answered.

"He's bad news, Stormy. One of the worst. Best we just keep drivin'."

Silence stretched thin, and the girl's eyes didn't waver from him.

"He wanted something from you."

"Don' worry 'bout it, petite."

"He tried to kill us." Her eyes shifted from him inward. She frowned, but then shook her head, refocusing on him. "Of whom did you two speak? An employer?"

"Trust me, Stormy. Dis ain't somethin' you want to get tangled up in." He didn't add that if Sabretooth had wanted to kill them, they would have had a much harder time of things, and if Stormy hadn't surprised him with her powers he might not have been able to get away at all. Sabretooth had a dangerousness about him to rival any mutant Gambit had met. Maybe even Wolverine.

Stormy didn't look ready to let up, but Remy was rescued as his phone rang.

He didn't recognize the number, but he flipped it open and pulled it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Gambit." The voice was low and soft—like silk over steel, and the deep voice sent a chill even over the phone line.

Remy went still at the sound of the cold voice.

"Sinister. " He didn't bother asking where the man had gotten his number; Sinister had his ways.

Still, weird as hell to hear him on a phone call. Somehow, it was hard to picture.

"I want what is mine," the cold voice continued.

"Din't get the package. Got da book, lost it on de way out. Ya expect stealin' from the Hellfire club's gonna be a walk-in and walk-out? I'm good, but dey got their own share a' mutants dere too."

There was a moment of silence. "What are you hiding, LeBeau?" Sinister mused—an actual thread of curiosity in his voice. But he didn't wait for a response. "I'll tell you what I think. I think you have something that belongs to me . . . and I believe that makes us even."

Remy adjusted the phone, his hand tight on the wheel.

". . . a lovely little specimen. It wasn't difficult finding her and taking her—even with her connections. But how soon will such a delicate flower will wither without the feel of the sun . . . "

"Mon Dieu. Belladona," Gambit gasped.

"Safe . . . for now. So how about a deal. The journal for your beau. When can I expect you?"

Gambit flipped his car around and headed back the way he'd come.

* * *

"Gambit gonna drop you off. You'll have a room—I'll give you some cash for food. I'll be back for you—just be a day or two."

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing. Just some business."

Her expression was unimpressed. "Who is Belladona?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter."

"This man," Stormy said slowly. "He has her, doesn't he?"

Gambit didn't answer.

The girl took a deep breath. "I'm not letting you go alone," she said clearly. "If there's trouble, I can help."

"Not dis time, petite."

"You know I can be of use. You admit that this Sabretooth is _bad news_, and if he works for this man he may be there_. _ You will need help if it comes to blows."

"Sabretooth is, bad, Stormy, but Sinister is worse."

"Sinister." Stormy rolled it off her young tongue carefully, warily. But then she shook his head. "I don't care. I'm coming with you. You can't stop me."

"Oh, ho. No, you don't even try it."

"What are you going to do? Tie me up for two days until you come back? I will escape. Leave me in the streets? I will follow. Do not doubt me, Gambit—you will not get by leaving me behind."

Gambit shook his head, but the girl smiled, sitting back.

TBC . . .


End file.
